


Shoot, shot, shot

by duesternis



Series: Shoot me down and lift me up [7]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: A lot of pain, Badass hanzo, Blood, Conspiracy, Crime syndicate Au, Damsel in distress jesse, Deadlocks, Fluff, Hospitals, M/M, Not Overwatch AU, Possessiveness, Yakuza, gunfights, not really but kinda, or sth, some introspection, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7830088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duesternis/pseuds/duesternis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amarillo, Texas.</p><p>War unfolds and shots ring in cramped spaces.<br/>The Dragon protects what is his and bares his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>____<br/>Part seven of a series of Crime-Syndicate-AU ficlets. There will be a continuity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shoot, shot, shot

**Author's Note:**

> I want to apologize for this.
> 
> enjoy. (even tho it ain't my best writing. kinda not happy with some bits, but whatevs. At least it's out there now.)

They took a plane this time.  
A private one too.  
Started from a private airport, with beautiful stewardesses and a handsome pilot.  
Shimada had given Jesse the serape back at the airport this morning, a smile hiding in the bad lighting of the hallway.  
„Otherwise they may not regocnize you.“  
Now Jesse sat in the back of the plane, hat tipped over his face and serape pulled up over his chin.  
Yoko sat next to him and stared straight out of the window. She hadn‘t even blinked when he had sat down.  
She had given the tiniest jerk, though.  
Shimada sat at one of the tables in the front part of the plane, talked to three of the apparently more important people that came along.  
Most of the people in the plane were goonies. Cannonfodder. Foot soldiers.  
With Jesse‘s intel most of them would ride the plane back home. If all went well.  
If not.  
Well.  
Jesse knew the area.  
He‘d keep himself and Shimada safe and hidden.  
Santa Fe was still an option, the retreat not yet blown.  
And Mexico was close enough to take into consideration.  
There was no reason to be nervous.  
He knew the men they were working against. And of course this whole op wouldn‘t get rid of the Deadlocks in full, but it would be a good start to get rid of head quarters.  
A roach may live without its head for a few days, but eventually it would starve.

Jesse shifted, stretched his long legs and sighed.  
Shimada raised his head at the table looked at him from across the plane. There was something tight around his eyes that made them glow.  
Jesse noted it down as a smile and grinned back, throwing as much charm into it as he had.  
Sparkling teeth and a wink.  
Shimada lifted a single brow and looked back at the sheets of paper on the table. A smirk lingered in the corner of his mouth.  
„You bring dishonour to the clan.“  
„Oooh. Now I‘m good enough ta talk to, yeah?“ He looked at Yoko from under the rim of his hat. She was staring straight out of the window.  
„Leave him be. He is as far above you as the moon.“  
„Didcha know it was an American who first set foot on the g‘ol‘ moon up there? And don‘t prance around makin‘ decisions for grown men. ‘S kinda derogatory, don‘tcha think? Be sure ta tell whoever ya really work for too.“  
Jesse grinned at her and was rewarded with a cold stare out of wide black eyes.  
So he was on to something here.  
„I‘ll be sure ta‘ve an eye on ya, Yoko. An‘ my aim ain‘t shoddy, love.“ He tipped his hat mockingly at her and stood, stretching his legs with a short walk through the plane.  
One of the stewardesses looked at him with hungry eyes and Jesse eyed her tight uniform with a tap of his hat.  
She was pretty. Slender ankles and round calves. The bones in her ankles were something made from dreams.  
They reminded him of the way Shimada‘s ankles had felt against his palms.  
Jesse swallowed and turned away from the woman with flushed cheeks. It was suddenly hot under his serape.  
The woman turned to her colleague and they started to chat in quick Japanese, obvious delight high on their tongues.  
The goons sitting close to them, ogling them all the time, joined the conversation and the tone quickly dropped into something Jesse knew well.  
The crude laughter of Gangfolk, making cruel jokes about pretty boys and well-tended men, the occasional jibe about women somewhere in there too.  
He walked on.

Hollers followed him to Shimada. Who bristled at the sudden rise in volume, turned over his shoulder and frowned.  
Said something in Japanese and hurried apologies fell to silence.  
Jesse leaned against the wall by the table and watched Shimada and his trusted whatevers work through piles of paper.  
Neat Japanese characters filled them from top to bottom. It looked a bit as if an army of bugs had walked through a pond of ink and then square-danced all over the paper.  
A crackle of static in the speakers and then the pleasant voice of the handsome captain in the air.  
„Honoured passengers, we will arrive at our destination shortly. Please fasten your seatbelts and move your seats into an upright position. Good luck and best wishes.“  
Jesse whistled through his teeth, a high note and made his way back to his seat.  
Put a hand on the back of Shimada‘s seat for just a breath and felt his eyes on the back of his neck.

 

Hanzo was aware of McCree.  
The way he anxiously twirled a cigarillo in his brown hand and the way he crossed and uncrossed his ankles too often. His frowning face and the nervous jitter in his knee.  
He was biting his lip and his adam‘s apple bobbed entrancingly under his skin.  
Waiting seemed to wear him thin.  
And the men they had brought along steered clear of him.  
So McCree sat alone in one of the plastic chairs, legs stretched out for the moment and hat tipped low over his face. He looked miserable.  
Hanzo crossed his arms over his chest and felt his shirt pull tight over his back.  
Souta at his side pursed his thin lips.  
„He is a rogue element in the plan, Shimada-san. You cannot predict what he will do in the face of his comrades.“  
Hanzo pursed his lips aswell and looked at Souta out of the corner of his eye. Back to McCree.  
„We will see.“  
„Shimada-san, please consider-“  
A flat hand slicing through the air shut him up and Hanzo closed his eyes for a moment. Fond exasperation in his face when they opened again.  
„Souta, he is no longer theirs. He is without master at the moment and will fight for a place to belong. Dogs want packs.“  
Souta grinned a foul grin and Hanzo had to remind himself that Souta once took a knife to the kidney for him. In the field it was easy to forget the integrity of men.  
Too easy to slay a man with integrity from behind.  
Hanzo re-did his ponytail and twisted it into a bun at the back of his head.  
He felt eyes on him, looked up and caught McCree staring at him. A slow, wide smile pulled McCree‘s lips up. Hanzo smiled back and the tip of a hat earned a low chuckle.  
Souta made a sound and Hanzo saw him look at McCree. One corner of his mouth twisted into a sneer, arms crossed, feet set wide.  
A provocative stance, if Hanzo had ever seen one.  
„Souta, he is no enemy.“  
„Not a friend either.“  
„He is, if I say so. Consider him part of the liaisons we have with other American organizations. McCree is what makes this possible for us, treat him with the respect he deserves. Be sure to tell the men the same. I do not like how they talk about him.“  
Souta opened his mouth to say something.

The door opened and heads turned towards the young man panting, hands on his knees. He had a mohawk, the cropped sides were bleached and he wore a patterned shirt under his suit.  
With a huge gulp of air he straightened his back. „They answered! An hour and we start the war!“  
Contained but powerful shouts filled the air for the length of a breath. Then all heads turned to Hanzo.  
Who made a step into the room and uncrossed the arms over his chest.  
„We will crush the skulls of these meagre excuses for men with the might of the dragon. Use not excessive force, but controlled power. Never forget where you belong and make every move count. The Dragon strikes today and let the thunder be heard for years to come.“  
He bowed shortly and the men and women around the room were quick to return the bow.  
McCree stood and rolled his shoulders under his cloak. Checked the grip of his revolver and the ammunition strapped all over his person.  
The unlit cigarillo went into its usual corner of McCree‘s mouth and was reverently lit up behind a turned shoulder.  
The first fume of smoke reminded Hanzo of the crests of smoke dragons breathe in the legends. Smelling of perfume and flower, not cedar and vanilla.  
Hanzo exhaled carefully and turned to Souta.  
„My weapon.“  
With a nod Souta scurried away to procure the case that held Hanzo‘s costum made weapon.

McCree sauntered over to him on long legs, spurs jangling and soles as silent as ever.  
Without the ridiculous metal the man would be as silent as a cat.  
„Hey, handsome.“ He leaned in, tipped his hat and Hanzo smiled at the line of his shoulder.  
„McCree.“ Mirth made his voice warm and private. The room beyond and its frantic movement was hidden by McCree‘s strong back, the drape of his red cloak and the wide rim of his hat.  
Hanzo gave himself to the illusion of privacy, just for a moment, and allowed his eyes to linger on McCree‘s face.  
„Them fellas might not keep ta the one hour they set ya up with. Bu‘ no promises.“  
Half a shrug and Hanzo saw the shaking in McCree‘s right hand.  
Half a step closer and he felt sun and hot stone reach for him with warm fingers. McCree‘s eyes on his mouth felt sensual.  
„I already figured as much. Graceless American crime, after all. In forty minutes we start the war. They might call us out on being dishonourable for that. I shall remind them of when they wanted to shoot me in the back, the cowards they all are.“  
McCree laughed, tapped ash on the grey floor and nodded absentmindedly. „Good God, Hanzo. Wouldn‘t want ya as my enemy, if I‘m quite honest. Ya ain‘t a timid flower.“  
Now it was Hanzo‘s turn to laugh. „I was raised to inherit an international dynasty, McCree.“  
„Of completely legal activities.“ A wink and the brown of McCree‘s eyes lit up with the glow of his cigarillo.  
Hanzo just gave his shoulder a hearty slap.  
„Shimada-san.“  
He looked over his shoulder, hand still on McCree‘s upper arm. Souta stood there, face tight and weapon case in his hands.  
„You wanted this.“  
„Put it here.“ A table by the wall, empty water bottles on it and dust.  
Souta set the black case down and stepped to the side with a bow. His shaved brows were drawn together.  
McCree tilted his chest towards Souta, hand on his hip, cigarillo smoking faintly. The revolver glinted loosely in its holster and Hanzo stepped away from him and to the table.  
He felt instantly cold, away from the lingering smell of sun.  
Scoffed at his own weakness and opened the case with the usual set of codes. The lid was pleasantly heavy in his hands as he opened it.  
With a pleased smile Hanzo lifted Stormbow from the case and checked the bowstring. Adjusted a few settings and accepted the quiver with arrows from Souta.  
A low whistle carried through the room.  
„Well, golly gee, blow me.“ A breathless laugh and the scrape of a heel against concrete. „Had no idea ya‘re a bowman.“  
Hanzo looked at McCree over his shoulder.  
„The correct term is archer.“

 

Texas air in his lungs. Texas wind in his hair. Texas soil under his boots. Texas blood on his hands.  
Jesse shot, reloaded, ran. Rolled, shot six times and hit six times.  
Reloaded in the crook of an old hallway in an abandoned office building and lit a new cigarillo.  
Next door a group of Deadlocks was sitting tight, waiting for a signal from their dead leader.  
Who had died in the skirmish in the diner that had opened the war on Shimada‘s order. A pale arrow in his eye and Jesse had heard angels sing for a moment there.  
A frantic whisper from the room in front of him and a fume of smoke against the ceiling.  
Jesse kicked down the door and shot them all.  
One of them was maybe seventeen. Maybe. A heavy sigh and Jesse ran on, down the hallway.  
Someone shot at him from behind and he shot over his shoulder while he still turned.  
Pablo. Who‘s wife had once kissed Jesse on the cheek as thanks for bringing her husband home safe.  
She wouldn‘t kiss him now.  
None of the Deadlock Girls would kiss him now.

He heard shouts and shots far off, a floor or two up and tapped ash on the bare floor. There were footsteps somewhere behind him.  
Jesse leaned against the wall and looked down the hallway.  
Saw the tips of a mohawk lean around a corner and a young face winked at him. There was a piercing in the stuck out tongue.  
Jesse tipped his hat in return and the boy sneaked down the hallway into another section of the building. Spurred boots went on towards the staircase.  
„McCree, ya traitorin‘ hound! That ya dare step a toe back into our territory!“  
He turned, gun held loosely in his right, state of his left arm hidden under the sway of his serape.  
„Well, if it ain‘t Freddie. Good ta see ya.“ Jesse tipped his hat and grinned cockily.  
A line of smoke trailed from his lips.  
Freddie made an angry step forward and pointed his gun at Jesse. Straight at his face. „Fuck ya, McCree! You ain‘t worth the floor you walk on, bastard!“  
Jesse chuckled and shot a hole through Freddie‘s leg. He went down with a scream, gun fallin out of his hand.  
With a few slow steps Jesse stood over the bleeding man.  
„So, ya know, fella. I don‘t like it much when fuckheads talk bad about my Ma. So ya really brought this on yaself.“ He lifted Peacekeeper to point the long barrel at Freddie‘s face.  
Tears streaked down his cheeks and he babbled something, spit frothing at his lips.  
A single shot rang through the hallway, a hand jerked limply against the floor and Jesse turned around to finally take the damn staircase.  
He already wasted enough time here.  
The com in his ear crackled for the thousands time, spat distorted Japanese at him and he dropped it on his shoulder, opening the door to the staircase with a kick to the lock.  
The door slammed against the concrete beyond and Jesse took the stairs two at a time. With a soft pat the com moved against his shoulder with every step.

He filled Peacekeeper‘s cylinder with slight difficulties and mourned the loss of his prosthetic for a moment.  
Then a shot ricocheted off the railing and he had no time to think.  
He pressed his back against the cold concrete, damp, even through his shirt and serape, and tilted his head up, checking for the damn offender.  
Nothing.  
Jesse exhaled a fume of smoke, watched it drift upwards. A scoff.  
He aimed Peacekeeper at the gaps in the railing, half a pair of stairs up to the next landing.  
The toe of a shoe shifted into view and Jesse shot at what had to be connected to said shoe.  
The shot was deafening in the cramped space, the scream following even more so.  
A loud thud, thud, thud as a crumpling body tumbled down the stairs.  
„Howdy, Darryl.“  
„He‘s gonna getcha, McCree, and he‘s gonna flay the skin straight offa your back! He‘s gonna cut off your balls and he‘s gonna cut ya up, fuckin‘ traitor!“  
„Well, ain‘t soundin‘ like my kinda party. Don‘t know if I‘ll be able to make it. I‘ll try, tho.“ He tipped his hat, grinned devilish and shot the poor sodding idiot straight through the throat.  
Grisly thing.  
„Sorry, fella. Ain‘t a rosy thing, this life.“  
Only dead eyes, a crazy shine to them even in death, answered Jesse and he stepped over Darryl and scaled the next set of stairs.  
The shots and shouts were getting louder. Japanese mingled with English and the com on his shoulder crackled.  
„Hush, darlin‘.“ Jesse fumbled with the cable and tore it out of the small box clipped to the back of his belt.  
Shimada had insisted on it. Something about standard procedure for Shimada-operations and all. Jesse had rolled with it, a shrug and a curl of his lips.  
Now he got rid of it just as easily.  
Dropped the cable down the staircase and leaned against the door to the next floor.  
Someone thumped against it from the other side, slid down the metal and landed on the floor.  
Jesse waited another moment and opened the door.

Kicked the body to the side (black suit, sunglasses, Japanese female) and silently closed the door behind himself.  
The shooter was nowhere to be seen. The flash from a semi-automatic gun and the tell-tale rattling of it to his right.  
He crouched by the door, checked Peacekeeper and stood again. Shot at the man operating the semi-automatic and didn‘t wait to check if he hit.  
Through this floor, up the second staircase, over the roof to the next building and then to the fourth floor.  
Where the Boss had his very own hideout.  
He jumped over an upturned table, rolled behind it and waited until the next volley from somewhere had passed over his head.  
Possibly three shooters, maybe four. He peeked over the table, counted three, ducked.  
Waited for the next volley and checked again.  
Four.  
Four quickwater shots, four bulls-eye hits.  
Four cartridges hit the concrete with metallic tinkles, reminiscent of laughter in the smoke of battle.  
He reloaded behind his table and stubbed his cigarillo under his boot.  
Hell had broken loose on the seventh floor of the ten-floor-building.  
The floor was slippery in some places, empty cartridges, empty magazines and discarded weapons everywhere.  
Not only guns, but knifes, swords, nunchakus and even more obscure stuff still in hands.  
A constant noise of ringing shots and screams, the fleshy sound of bullets hitting home blended for Jesse into a background hum as he weaved through the battlefield.  
He had no idea who he shot at, eyes squinted against the smoke.  
Someone shouted his name, a shrill voice, and he tipped his hat ironically, before running into the open staircase and right into the arms of three leaders.  
Jesse didn‘t recall their names. But he knew their groups.

One had a group of old members, brands murky and unclear. It was the one with the goatee.  
One had a group of beautiful young men. It was the one with the tight shirt, belly bulging under it.  
One had a group of half-breeds, all angry, all cruel. It was the one with the scar on his cheek.

„Jesse McCree.“  
„Never thought I‘d get the honour of talkin‘ to‘im.“  
„That‘s nothing to shooting this bastard to hell.“  
Jesse laughed and tipped his hat back. „Well, gentlemen. Who gets the honours?“  
Peacekeeper was down to two bullets. No time to reload in the thick of a fight with only one hand. No way he could reload now.  
So he grinned a cocky grin and let his spurs jingle faintly.  
The one with the scar jumped his gun first.  
Shot at Jesse. Too wide to be dangerous.  
He fell with a stunned face, hole between his ribs. Front and back.  
The one with the goatee had a red line on his upper arm, oozing blood down to his gun.  
They looked at him with wide eyes and Jesse grinned.  
„Well, fellas.“ He made a step over the dead man on the floor and watched the one with the tight shirt jerk.  
„Ya can still leave an‘ I won‘t tell anyone that ya couldn‘t get it up. Ain‘t nobody need ta know what happened ‘ere.“  
Another step, soles soft and spurs jingling.  
„You‘re one hell of a crazy motherfucker.“  
„Actually I prefer badass motherfucker. Crazy has a bad connotation.“ Jesse made another step, between the two men and on the first step of the stairs.  
„Then. Enjoy the rest of yer lives, fellas.“  
The one with the goatee snorted. „Well, right back at ya, McCree. And be damned glad you don‘t have a group. They‘d be dead by now.“  
„Ain‘t I glad ‘bout a lota things.“ Jesse tipped his hat a last time and was up the stairs.  
Soft voices from below and he reloaded on the next landing.

Passed the eighth floor and shot three people on the ninth. One on the tenth. A kid.  
It made him glad he hadn‘t eaten in hours.  
Up a narrow ladder and out on the roof.  
Texas wind in his serape, hat barely clinging to his head. He reloaded and jumped the ledge down on the next roof.  
Rolled and luckily evaded a shot.  
Stood and shot. Hit a woman in the thigh and sighed.  
She screamed abuse at him and was shut up with a well-aimed kick to her face.  
„Sorry, Ma‘am.“ Jesse tipped his hat and slipped soundlessly into the building.  
Caught his breath sitting on wooden stairs.  
A dog barked somewhere in the house and a child called for their mother. Jesse cursed and made sure Peacekeeper was not left hungry.  
He twirled the cylinder, watched his barrel glint in the murky light filtering up into the staircase.  
Only when Jesse‘s breath came in a slow, easy rhythm did he get up.  
His chest felt tight, but his steps were featherlight on the stairs.  
A carousel of thoughts was playing jingles in his heads, but he turned his back to it. There was no time to start thinking about what he was doing.  
Second thoughts and doubts had no place in his life. Least of all now.  
He was doing this as much for himself as for Shimada.  
Or that was what Jesse told himself over and over again as he took step after step towards the fourth floor.

Security was lax on the upper floors, virtually non-existant and easily slipped past.  
Who would think anyone would come from above?  
Who would know that it was possible?  
Jesse had to swallow a grunt of laughter.  
Who would know, but the man that chose the place.  
A dog lifted its head in a room Jesse passed on silent soles. He lifted a finger to his lips and the dog dropped its head again.  
He made another stop on the fifth floor, hidden away in a bathroom, until a cluster of joking Deadlocks was behind a closed door.  
Jesse caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink and had to swallow.  
His beard was out of control, a wild pelt of hair covering the lower half of his face.  
The upper half a shadow, thanks to his hat, with wild eyes. Blood-tinged from bad sleep and wide with adrenaline. Beastly.  
An angry furrow between his brows and he opened the door, before he could see more than that.  
Another deep inhale and exhale and Jesse took the stairs with the ease of a man who belonged.  
Peacekeeper was holstered at his hip, barrel warm from being shot so much today already.  
His right hand trailed the polished wood of the railing and his spurs jingled happily. He pursed his lips, whistled two notes of the opening of the Boss‘s favourite TV-show.

Silence fell in the large room that made the fourth floor.

Jesse hadn‘t been aware of the amount of voices filling it, until they stopped.  
He stepped into the room and looked around, slowly, surely, arrogantly.  
A cowboy coming into the saloon in a new town, all tables filled with locals, eyes fixed on him in unfriendly stares.  
It was so quiet, he could hear the child talk to their mother far away.  
Jesse grinned and nodded at the Boss sitting in an armchair, face wet with sweat.  
„Howdy, Oswald. Fancy meetin‘ ya here.“  
Another breath of silence and then Jesse jumped back into the staircase, bullets tearing up the wooden floor where his boots had been not a second before.  
He laughed breathlessly and thumped his head against the wall.  
There were more people with paranoid, weak Oswald than he had hoped.  
More than he would have posted here.  
„Well, McCree, but ya ain‘t in charge anymore, so suck it.“ He chuckled to himself and leaned into the room.  
Shot, leaned back and heard an angry shout.  
One hit.  
He had to make the bullets count. No one would come for aid here.  
It was just him and Peacekeeper and the lick of death on the back of his neck.  
Jesse laughed and threw himself into the action. Gun a-blazing.

 

„First floor?“ A howl of wind in the com.  
„Clear!“  
„Second floor?“ A wayward gunshot.  
„All clear!“  
„Third floor?“ Someone sobbing.  
„All clear, young Lord.“  
„Fourth floor?“ Quick feet.  
„Clear.“  
„Fifth floor?“ A slamming door.  
„Same here.“  
„Sixth floor?“ Distant shouts ringing loudly.  
„We‘ve cleared the sixth floor.“  
„Seventh floor?“ The loud crash of something falling over.  
„Cleared.“  
„Eighth floor?“ Triumphant laughter.  
„All clear up here.“  
„Ninth floor?“ Ragged breathing.  
„All clear, but we‘re down to our last man.“  
„Tenth floor?“ A single scream.  
„Clear.“  
Hanzo dropped his hand from his com for a second and allowed himself the pleasant thrill of victory. He was standing on a roof across the street, Stormbow in his hand, Souta at his back.  
„The roof is clear aswell. Could any of the teams locate Hamp?“  
A choir of negative replies filtered through and Souta cursed creatively.  
„McCree?“  
No response. Not even a crackle of static.  
Hanzo huffed. Tried again.  
And a third time, annoyance trickling into his voice.  
„Has anyone got a visual on McCree?“  
„Negative, young Lord.“  
„Last I saw him was in the middle of the fight, shooting wildly and taking the stairsup.“  
Souta stepped closer to Hanzo, who stared at the roof across the street, as if it had personally offended him.  
It had, in a way.  
„Check the building for him and other men that got seperated. Tend the wounded and gather the dead. We meet in the lobby in ten minutes.“  
Positive chatter and Hanzo turned around, fists so tight that his knuckles whitened, he stormed past Souta. Ignored the opened mouth of his friend and simply took the stairs down to the street.  
Crossed it and wanted to open the door to the abandoned office building they had made a battlefield.  
A cold gust of wind ripped at his pants.

The door in the building next to it, an old apartment house with dusty windows, sprang open and a man tumbled into the street.  
He hit the pavement with a heavy thump and a groan. His head lolled against the grey stone, face bloodied, hair matted to the side of his head.  
Breath hung as a cloud before his mouth.  
The brown eyes were dull and sightless.  
Hanzo froze.  
Bristled.  
Snarled.  
Nocked an arrow and moved to stand over the crumpled form of Jesse McCree in the streets of Amarillo.  
Anger was no word for the flame of fury burning cold in his chest.  
The dark square of the door held the shape of a man.  
The arrow loosened almost soundlessly and landed a fleshy thwack. A muffled sound of pain and a body in the doorway.  
Repeat.  
Repeat.  
Souta at his side, kicking bodies away, guns drawn. He moved inside, shot, came back outside.  
„The whole place is crawling with them! They‘ll get to the windows next! Hanzo, we have to go!“  
Hanzo scoffed and shot into the dark mouth of the house. A shout, a thump marked his hit.  
„Get him to safety.“ And Hanzo took off.

A jump over the bodies in the doorway. An arrow to the face for the man closest to the door.  
He pulled it out as the men fell and shot it again.  
There were enough Deadlocks to make it an exercise for Hanzo.  
He pursed his lips in concentration, nocked an arrow, drew his bowstring and shot.  
Repeat after repeat.  
Whenever he passed a body with an arrow inside, he pulled it out and shot it again.  
People ran up the stairs, shouting something in crude, ugly American. Others answered from above.  
Hanzo snarled and followed them on light feet.  
His quiver was filled with bloodstained arrows. His shoes left dark prints on the carpet in the first room of the second floor.  
His tongue wrapped harshly around the American words he spat at the men cowering behind upturned furniture, already damaged by gunshots.  
„Where is Hamp?“  
The metallic click of hammers being cocked and clips being changed. Hanzo scoffed and shot an arrow in an arc over the makeshift barricade.  
A hit.  
„Where is Hamp?“  
„Fuck you!“  
Another hit.  
„Where is Hamp?“ Tension made Hanzo‘s voice waver, a string drawn too tight.  
„We won‘t be traitors like the dog you picked up, fucking Jap!“  
Crude laughter from behind the barricades and a loose gunshot. It whipped past Hanzo and the bullet lodged itself in the far wall.  
Hanzo made a noise low in his chest and walked slowly towards the barricade.  
One arrow after the other let loose from his fingers.  
He climbed over the barricade and cracked skulls with his bow as three of the men lunged at him. Their eyes were animalistic with fear.  
Hanzo wiped the blood on Stormbow off on a t-shirt clinging to a dead man and fixed a boy that had peed his pants with ice-cold eyes. An arrow pinned his arm to the upturned stuffed chair he had hidden behind.  
„Where is Hamp.“  
A hiccup and the boy started to cry. Stuttered through a few attempts until he could talk.  
Hanzo moved the bodies apart, some still groaning, only hurt and maimed. He pulled undamaged arrows from flesh and bone.  
The boy swallowed and started with a thin voice. „He‘s on the fifth floor now.“ A burst of hysteric hiccups. „McCree shot him somewhere.“  
The boy lost consciousness when Hanzo tore the arrow from his arm.  
Hanzo scoffed, climbed back over the barricade and ran up the stairs to the fifth floor.

Bullets went past him and he kept running. One or two nicked him somewhere, adrenaline and anger keept the pain at bay.  
Shouts followed him and Hanzo picked up speed.  
Skidded to a halt on the landing of the fifth floor and listened.  
A bustle of movement to the left. Deeper into the house.  
A grunt of pain, a rough voice he had heard before.  
Hamp.  
A hand gently touched the arrows in his quiver and one sprang to his fingers. Eager to sail home.  
Hanzo smiled, teeth pressing against his lower lip. The dragons were churning under his skin, ready to sink their teeth into their enemy.  
Soundlessly he moved through the richly furnished rooms. A child, a girl, said something in a room he passed by. Her voice was thick with tears. A woman was with her.  
There were no signs of a fight on this floor.  
Hanzo stopped behind a large closet. Two men were at the entry to the room that was bursting with the scared air of men hit where they least expected it.  
He palmed the throwing knives at his side.  
Checked the positions of his targets. Drew, aimed and threw the knives in quick succession.  
The men crumpled as one and Hanzo was glad for the thick carpets muffling the sound. With careful movements he came up to the doorway and peered into the room.  
A dozen men were nervously pacing, smoking, talking.  
Hamp sat on a couch, one leg propped up on a small table. A red bandage was wrapped tightly around his thigh.  
Hanzo smiled and took the chosen arrow between his teeth.  
Good shot, that McCree.  
The artery was nicked at least.  
Three arrows in his hand, one nocked, shot, another taking its place.  
Quick shots, confusion, fear, anger.  
Shouted orders not being heeded were good for Hanzo, bad for the Deadlocks.  
A dozen arrows, a dozen fallen men and Hamp holding a gun in unshaking hands. A grin on his pale face.  
Panicked steps in the floors below.  
Hanzo had to hurry.  
Gunshots.

„So you come at last, Shimada.“  
Hanzo made a step towards Hamp, took the arrow from between his teeth and gently nocked it.  
The bowstring lay against his fingers, ready to be drawn and loosened.  
„Was it your idea?“ A laugh from Hamp. „I bet it was McCree‘s idea. He‘s always been a crazy one. Coming in here all alone, that dumb revolver of his little more than show. He didn‘t even have his second arm.“  
Another laugh and Hanzo drew the bowstring taut. McCree‘s revolver was on the table, close to Hamp‘s foot.  
There was blood on the ridiculous spur at the base of the grip.  
The leather hat had dark spots on the rim and rested next to Hamp on the plush seat of the sofa.  
Hanzo swallowed the wave of rage cresting in his blood. He needed a cool head for this, even though the dragons cried for blood.  
„Whose idea was it to kill me in Santa Fe? It cannot have been you, I have never heard of a swine being able to perform such an intellectual feat.“  
The arrow was aimed unwavering at Hamp‘s forehead.  
With the little distance between them Hanzo would pin the man‘s head to the back of the couch.  
The gun in Hamp‘s grip started shaking.  
But he laughed without a trace of fear. Sweat trickled down his face and Hanzo lifted a single brow.  
„You‘ll still kill me, if I tell you.“ A snort when Hanzo nodded. „Alright.“  
Hamp dropped the gun on the table. The bandage around his thigh dripped red on the floor. He was pale.  
„I never got his name, a smart guy. I only know that he‘s also a Shimada, like you are. And isn‘t that the sickest thing? Family should be worth more than that.“  
„Than what?“  
„Than business. He thought no and offered me a good share, when we got rid of you. Obviously didn‘t work out for us.“ A bark of a laugh.  
„What did he sound like?“  
„An old man. Excited, bloodthirsty. Cruel, the way he badmouthed you. But not all families are alike.“  
„Did he mention anything else?“ Hanzo pulled the bowstring into the last position. No more talking after this.  
The steps and shouts were getting closer.  
The shots too.  
„Something about dragons destroying each other, like someone high babbling about some weird thing that ain‘t there.“ Hamp shrugged and wiped sweat from his brow.  
There was an inkling of dread in Hanzo‘s heart and he nodded.  
„Goodbye, Oswald Leroy Hamp.“  
„Should have killed McCree for telling you that alone.“  
Hanzo let the arrow fly.

The steps outside rang through the hallway and a pair of men stumbled into the room.  
Hanzo lifted his bow, arrow nocked.  
Souta and one of the other men.  
„You are late.“  
„Are you alright, Hanzo?“  
A scoff. „Of course. McCree has been taken care of?“  
„We took him back to the base of operations.“ The other man, Kei, had a tight expression. Worry and fear pulling his eyes together.  
Souta‘s lips had an unpleasant shape, as if even the idea of getting McCree to safety was too much for him.  
Hanzo bent over the foot on the table and took the revolver with careful fingers. The grip was warm and sticky with blood, the barrel still hot.  
He pushed the gun into the waistband of his pants and regarded Hamp with a last cold stare.  
His pale eyes were open and empty in death.  
The leather of the hat was coarse under Hanzo‘s fingers.  
Kei and Souta hovered in the door, not sure what to make of the scene. Blood on the walls and bodies lining the room.  
Hanzo walked past them briskly and stepped into the hallway.  
„We‘re done here.“  
A foot on the stairs.  
„Clean up the rest of them.“  
Souta bowed in confirmation and Kei shifted on his feet.  
„Young Lord, there are women and a child...“  
Hanzo looked at Kei over his shoulder. The revolver was a heavy weight at his back. His throat was dry and his head was swimming.  
A tremor ran through his hands and he balled fists at his thighs. The rim of the hat crumpled in his grip  
„Give them the choice.“  
Kei bowed and Hanzo descended the stairs, his men bustling around him, shooting and dragging people.  
A girl with a dragon on her cheek smiled at him with bloodied teeth. Hanzo nodded and she flushed.

The door to the street was open and the cold wind was a slap to his hot cheeks.  
Adrenaline made him jittery, nervous.  
A boy with a mohawk smoked, leaned against the wall of the house.  
„You.“ Hanzo pointed at him with Stormbow.  
The boy jerked to his feet and paled, eyes bright. „Shimada-dono.“ His bow was perfectly executed.  
„Come with me.“  
Hanzo took off and the boy followed him.  
„Since when were you standing there?“  
„Shortly after you went inside. I helped load your honoured guest into the transport.“ The boy‘s voice was rough, his words very polite.  
Hanzo felt his heart lurch at the mention of McCree. His eyes had been so very empty, his cheeks so pale.  
„We kept the door clear, cleaned up outside. The other building is cleared already. All hurt men and women are at the base.“ A pregnant pause. „The bodies too.“  
Hanzo nodded briskly, crossed the street, rounded a corner and slipped into the passenger seat of Souta‘s parked car.  
„Drive me there.“  
The boy nodded. His mohawk skirted the roof of the car. There was blood on his collar, nearly invisible in the flower pattern.  
Hanzo leaned against the backrest of his seat and gripped his own knees tightly, stilling the shaking of his hands.  
In a side street shots were fired and a man collapsed on the sidewalk. Someone grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him back into the shadows.  
Hanzo closed his eyes and the revolver dug into his spine. Hard ridges and metal. Nothing elegant and soft about it.  
Unlike the gentle curve of his stormbow, the slim lines and the soft, unyielding bowstring.  
The curve of the hat mocked him on the dashboard when he opened his eyes again.  
The car stopped after what seemed far too long and Hanzo was in the building before the driver‘s door had opened.  
„Shimada-dono!“ Yoko bowed hastily at the entrance and Hanzo swept past her.  
The boy hurried in after him, keeping to his heels.  
„What is your name?“  
„Tatsuya, Shimada-dono.“ The boy flushed and Hanzo nodded.  
„Take me to McCree, Tatsuya.“

They stopped infront of the elevator and Tatsuya pressed the button. The metal doors opened with a ping that resonated in the bare room.  
Inside he selected the third floor.  
Hanzo stared straight ahead, not taking note of his reflection in the mirrors. If he had done so he would have been greeted by a fearsome sight.  
There were blood spatters on his face, bright red drops on his cheeks. His shirt and suit were dotted with the same colour. Sweat wet his collar, made his chest damp, cotton sticking to his skin.  
His smart dress shoes left wet prints and there were bullet holes in his peacoat. The white tie in his hair, keeping the bun in place, was mottled with red and torn at the seams.  
Unforgiving Texas winds had tried to carry the dragon away.  
The elevator doors opened and Tatsuya led Hanzo through a bare hallway into a bare room. Bodies, covered with white sheets, were gathered at one side of the room.  
From there through another door into a room filled to the brim with shouting people.  
The few that were trained in emergency treatment did their best to stitch and glue together what belonged together.  
Hanzo breathed through the mouth and scanned the room, brows tight and chest heavy with dread.  
Someone stepped to the left near the back of the room and Hanzo glimpsed the red of the cloak on a table. His heart punched his throat with iron fists and his feet hit the floor with rapid rhythm.  
A hand on his biceps held him back from shouldering the people doing things to McCree out of the way, just to check if he was still breathing.  
„Shimada-dono!“  
Angrily, teeth bared like a predator and eyes afire, he jerked out of the grip and stared Tatsuya down.  
„Young Lord, please, let them do as much as they can! He needs the help.“

Hanzo inhaled, ready to rip the boy apart in the air, when a muffled grown from behind him deflated his anger. A gust of wind scattering petals.  
He whipped around and stared at the bloody face, cheeks still pale, eyes closed, forehead shiny with sweat.  
Even the beard was crusted red.  
Hanzo swallowed and lifted a hand into the small of his back. The revolver was still there.  
„He needs a hospital.“  
„Shimada-dono, I don‘t know...“  
„Now.“ There was a calm to him suddenly, that even spooked himself. There was a sudden sense of purpose in his hands.  
McCree had cheated Hanzo into making sure he kept himself safe. Now he would keep McCree safe. No matter the cost.  
„Call an ambulance.“  
Tatsuya bowed, pulled a cellphone from his pocket and walked out of the busy room to call for an ambulance.  
Hanzo balled his fists and stared at the shallow rise and fall of McCree‘s chest.  
The white sheet covering the table was pink and red around the head, a mockery of a halo.

 

His eyelids fluttered.  
There was a bright white light glaring at him from above and his tired eyes chose darkness over it.

 

There were points of pain all over his body and they kept pulsing, rattling with every breath.  
Someone said his name and there was a hand on his forehead.  
He wanted to open his eyes and couldn‘t. Panic was swallowed by unconsciousness.

 

Someone prodded at him and he woke with a start, a half-scream on his lips and his heart in his throat.  
The nurse dropped her tray with a metallic clatter, mouth a round shape around her screech.  
A moment of dead silence hung between them, wide eyes staring into wild eyes.  
The nurse picked the tray up and stuttered apology over apology. She had just been checking his IV, sorry, sorry, sorry.  
Jesse nodded sluggishly, brain trying to get him updated on whatever had happened between then and now, his heart still trying to choke him softly.  
He came up pretty short after the bit where he had been out of bullets in Amarillo.  
They shot him, maybe?  
He at least felt as if someone had pushed him down a flight of stairs or two.  
With another muttered apology the nurse left and Jesse closed his eyes against the brightness of the room.  
He felt wrung dry and suspended, waiting for someone to come and cut the strings that kept him from dropping.

A few moments after the nurse had left, the door opened very softly. Just enough to permit a muscular but small man to slip into the room soundlessly.  
Jesse smiled, a dull ache pulsed through his whole body when he tried to sit up.  
So he just fell back into his pillow and watched Shimada look at him with wide eyes.  
There were people talking in the hallway and something beeped loudly.  
The sun was a large square on the white of Jesse‘s linen and the white of the floor.  
Everything was white. The white in Shimada‘s eyes startingly so, against the backdrop of his dark iris.  
The blue of Shimada‘s shirt and his black pants were delightful spots of colour for Jesse‘s sore eyes.  
His heart stopped choking him, rather going with bursting in his chest.  
„Howdy.“  
Croaky and stiff. Like the sheets. Like his joints  
The sun slipped over the bed. Warmed his legs sluggishly.  
„Hello.“ A cleared throat and a closed door.  
Shimada took a step. Two. Three.  
He sat down in the chair by Jesse‘s bed and folded his hands in his lap. Brushed dust from his pants. And looked at his smart dress shoes.  
Jesse looked at him. There were lines etched around his eyes, bags under them. His lips looked dry, his skin grey and cold.  
Their eyes met.  
The sun dropped from the bed and stretched languidly over the tiles on the floor. Begging for attention  
Shimada blinked slowly. „How do you feel?“  
„Tired. Beat. Outta sync.“ Jesse forced himself to chuckle. It shook something in his head that hurt. A stinging at the side of it, that made his neck go stiff.  
He inhaled deeply, trying to ride the wave of pain to a safe shore and was pierced by a sharp stab in his abdomen.  
A grunt escaped him and Shimada leaned forward in his seat, eyes tight and face heavy with worry.  
„Pain?“  
Jesse raised his hand to keep Shimada in his seat and the nurse out of the room. „‘S all good, all good.“ He rasped a cough and lifted his blanket carefully.  
A pair of white pants on his legs and white bandages around his stomach. No red dots on either. Which meant nothing.  
„Wha‘ happened?“

Shimada scoffed, shifted back in his seat and crossed his legs elegantly. His socks had a subtle pattern. He pulled at his cuffs and twisted the cufflinks until they caught the sunlight.  
Sparkling dragons with emerald eyes.  
„Hamp is dead.“  
„Huh.“ Jesse dropped his blanket again and looked at the ceiling. It was white.  
„I left Souta to deal with the cleaning up and took you back to New York. You were hurt.“  
Shimada kept looking at his cufflinks, letting the small dragons shine bright silver in the light. Jesse licked his dry lips with his dry tongue.  
There was no dramatic weight dropping from his chest and no sudden urge to cry and dance, free from his old burden.  
No swooping gust of fresh breath filling his chest and making him strong and young again.  
Cutting off the head didn‘t really kill a cockroach for sure.  
He just had an empty twang in his abdomen, right were the bandage was tight and warm against his skin. His head hurt and he was tired.  
Jesse nodded slowly and closed his eyes.  
No more white for today.  
„Thanks, Hanzo.“  
„A dragon protects his people.“  
Something close to a smile curved Jesse‘s lips and a hand carefully touched his wrist before he fell asleep again.

 

„Brother, do you have a moment?“  
The garden was a white pane of snow and Hanzo stood on the stairs leading down to it.  
A lazy wind toyed with the edges of his sleeves, whipped his kimono around his ankles.  
„Yes, Genji.“  
He turned towards his younger brother. The green clinging to the tips of his dark hair was vibrant again. The fabric of his silver coat frushed against itself with a staticy sound.  
Two quick steps brought Genji to Hanzo‘s shoulder.  
They turned from the windows behind them, looking at the pair of birds pecking in the snow by the bushes.  
„Kenta talked to our father while you were in Texas.“  
„I expected as much.“  
Genji stuffed his hands into his pockets and puffed a cloud of breath into the grey sky. „It was a long talk.“  
Hanzo cursed under his breath.  
An airplane flew overhead and they both followed its trail with their eyes.  
„He requests you come home to talk to him. Kenta will take care of business for as long as you are in Japan.“  
A loud curse this time. The birds flew off, spooked by the outburst. Hanzo twisted his hands into tight fists and made a few futile steps.  
Back to Genji again, chest heaving with heavy, angry breaths.  
„He planned this, the ingrate! And I was slighted and blind enough to work into his hands!“ An furious hand tore through Hanzo‘s long hair until it whipped free in the wind.  
Snow sat on the strenghtening gusts, that carried the silken hairtie away. A grey dragon dancing into the clouds. Hanzo envied it its freedom.  
„I should have known better!“  
Genji shrugged and checked his phone. „We all should have, Hanzo. But what happened happened. You shouldn‘t go alone.“  
The last part said with sudden urgency, Genji‘s voice hard and unyielding.  
Hanzo looked at his brother with bright eyes. Wind slapped his cheeks red and he dug crescent moons into his palms.  
When even Genji was getting worried, then this had been allowed to fester for too long.  
„I won‘t.“ He took hold of Genji‘s shoulder and pressed a thumb into the fabric of his coat.  
A moment of silent conversation. Reassurance for them both, in face of unknown danger.  
„Promise me you will keep an eye on things here. Stay in touch with Souta in Texas.“  
Genji sighed, looked to the side, rubbed a hand over his face and shrugged. Looked at Hanzo. His eyes were serious, his face conveyed constructed boredom.  
A nod.  
„Okay. But you owe me a life-time supply of Ramen, Hanzo. I hate this kinda stuff.“  
Hanzo barked a short laugh and gave his brother‘s shoulder a hearty squeeze.  
„Count on me, Genji.“  
„And you count on me, Hanzo.“

 

The sliding door opened soundlessly and Jesse looked at the opening expectantly.  
He reclined against the pillows in his back and dog-eared the page in his book with his thumb.  
„Howdy, Hanzo. Wasn‘ expectin‘ ya until after lunch.“ Jesse smiled slowly, a warm thing on his face and even warmer in his chest.  
Seeing Shimada was the only thing that kept him from strangling his snobbish doctor and shouting abuse at the pitying nurses every time they poked their pretty heads into his room.  
„What brings ya‘ere?“  
Jesse pointed at the chair by his bedside and closed his book over the dog-ear.  
Shimada came up to the bed with silent steps and put his hands on the footboard. He was wearing his peacoat with the dragon pin on the lapel and had his hair in a tight bun.  
There was that same sense of seeing a weapon in shape of a man Jesse had had so long ago. It made his breath stick to the inside of his chest.  
„I‘m checking you out.“

Jesse grinned, cheeks flushed. „Well, darlin‘, ya should see me without all this...“ A lazy twist of his wrist indicated the sheets and cozy clothing. Shimada lifted a brow and Jesse winked.  
„Of the hospital.“  
„I prefer a more personal settin‘ either way, so I‘m all fine with it.“ The grin widened and Jesse put his book on the nightstand.  
Shimada walked to the nightstand and picked the book up. Slipped it into his coatpocket and leaned over Jesse in the bed.  
Their faces were less than a fist apart.  
„Get up, Jesse. We have a flight to catch.“  
Jesse looked at Shimada‘s lips as he spoke and leaned in, making Shimada catch his breath with a short inhale.  
„Well, darlin‘, I thought there gotta be a marriage before the honeymoon, but I ain‘t complainin‘.“  
With a roll of his eyes Shimada rubbed a hand through Jesse‘s beard, scratched his jawline affectionately and leaned back again.  
„My father called me home. We leave tonight.“

And he turned around, opened the sliding door wide and looked back at Jesse over his shoulder.  
The only dark spot in the pristine hospital world. A sight for sore eyes.  
„I‘ll be back shortly. Prepare yourself.“  
Jesse watched the retreating back and exhaled flatly. With shaking legs he stood and collected the few belongings he had been brought over time.  
The sweatpants he wore and the sweater had been procured by Shimada. Bought for a lot of money and handpicked.  
Jesse brushed them both down with his single hand and then carefully bend down to pick his bag with his other clothes up.  
His stitches twinged.  
There were blood stains on the shirt and serape, that not even Shimada‘s professional cleaners had gotten out.  
Jesse re-dressed with slow movements and a lot of low cursing.  
With careful steps, spurs jingling and soles as silent as ever, Jesse made his way out of his room.  
Shimada waited for him by the elevators. His eyes were alight with a fire Jesse had seen once before. They descended in silence.

The short walk to the car filled Jesse‘s lungs with the first taste of unfiltered air in days. Weeks maybe. Hospitals had no place for time keeping.  
Shimada opened the backdoor for him and slid into the seat after Jesse.  
The driver started the car and they left the hospital in the rearview mirror with speed.  
„Here.“  
Shimada dropped something into his lap and Jesse smiled. His heart skipped a beat.  
„Thank ya kindly, pardner.“  
The hat fit as well as ever and Jesse leaned back in his seat. Now he only needed Peacekeeper and a smoke and he was human again.  
He did not see the fond smile Shimada directed at him, for favour of pulling the rim of his hat over his eyes.  
Neither of them saw the cruel coldness the driver regarded the exchange with.


End file.
